


One Hand, One Heart

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-13
Updated: 2004-08-13
Packaged: 2019-05-30 12:59:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15097214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: You haunted his days.





	One Hand, One Heart

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**One Hand, One Heart**

**by: Lifeasanamazon**

**Character(s):** CJ, Toby and Abbey  
**Rating:** MATURE  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine at all.  
**Summary:** You haunted his days.  
**Spoiler:** None. This is completely AU.  
**Feedback:** Always appreciated. >  
**Author's Note:** This is my Five Elements response 

Thanks to Rhonda and Grace. And so many others. You know who you are. 

Title courtesy of 'West Side Story'. 

My elements: a very large cup of coffee, glass breaking, somebody gets very sick or dies, October eyes, CJ has tea with Abbey in an exotic location 

She wriggles her toes and the fine white grains shift beneath her feet. It's hot and it's dry and it's what she needs more than anything. After all those days of the cold inside.

"Lemon, CJ? Or milk?" Abbey's words shimmer out of the shadows, and lift onto the heat, floating and bobbing and finally burning themselves out.

There's a hand on her shoulder, small and warm. "How will you have your tea, CJ?"

CJ looks up at the face in front of her, sees the love that shines through the lines around the eyes, and is hit by such a wave of loss that she can hardly breathe.

"Lemon. Lemon will be fine." Somehow she forces her response and reaches out a hand to take the tall glass offered to her.

Fingers fumble. The tea falls to the deck and hot liquid splashes down her leg. She feels no pain, accepts Abbey pulling her to her feet, the ice applied to the burn. All she can see is the crack in the glass and the deep brown stain as it spreads in front of her.

She's been here before.

**

"I'm too old to be your pack-horse, CJ."

The walk from the elevator to her front door is no more than twenty feet, but Toby looks as if he's walked a mile. There's sweat beading on his forehead and his normally pale face has a gray tinge that wasn't there before.

"Give me those," CJ takes the box of books and heaves it onto her hip. "You only had to say that you weren't feeling well, Toby. I don't expect you to do more than you should."

She watches him walk unsteadily through the door and sit at the kitchen table, head in shaking hands.

"I just need a minute, that's all." He runs his fingers over the top of his head. "Haven't been to the gym as often as I used…"

Her snort brings his gaze flickering her way.

"Drink this." The glass of water thrust into his hand is raised to his mouth.

She notices the tremor as he lifts it. It's not surprising, she persuades herself; he's still recuperating.  And he's not as young as he was. She shakes her head at the thought that she has known Toby for more than half her life. Grins wryly at the knowledge that he has never been inside a gym in all those years. Stops short at the memory of how she'd thrown up when she'd gotten the call from the hospital six months ago.

"Sit there while I unpack some more."

She feels his eyes follow her around the sizable kitchen as she delves into boxes and crates, lifting out china and pans.

"Oh, the irony," Toby wipes the water from his lip with the back of his hand, "for the woman who eats out of cartons…" He stares at the counter. "Where did _they_ come from?"

CJ looks at the bright white porcelain in front of her and laughs. "Donna -as if you couldn't guess. She and James found some strange warehouse where you can paint your own designs. For some reason, she decided that I was more the plain white kind of girl." 

She places four large cups on the counter along with the rest of the china.

"What do you use those for?"

She glances across at him, pleased to hear some strength back in his voice; something that shows her he's got energy for more than keeping himself upright. She lifts a cup and studies it, anything to hide the relief she knows he will see in her eyes.

"Finger-bowls? Soup? If I'm struggling to wake up, a very large cup of coffee." She puts the object of his derision back down on the black granite. "I'm a woman who stretches boundaries, Toby. I am indefinable, as are my possessions. Things fit into my life the way I want them to, and not the other way round. I live to please myself."

His eyes follow her as she flits about the kitchen, deftly placing her belongings in a way that would drive him insane within a week.

"I'd be insane within a week."

She doesn't pretend to misunderstand him. She knows it freaks him more than a little that she can second guess even his oddest pronouncements. It's uncanny, she thinks, and one of the many reasons she can't bear to let him wander. She lost touch with the others more than two Christmases ago.

"Who says I need you sane?"

He stares at his hands, slowly flexes his fingers. "Who says you need me at all?"

It's come to this. These small nudges of insecurity humble him and as much as it thrills her to be needed, a larger part of her cringes at the shadow he's become.

"No one says it, Toby, I just do. You are the large cup in my life; your purpose is uncertain, but I find you useful in many ways that are unique to me. You look attractive in the right light and you warm my hands. You fill me up and you nourish me."

The silence hangs. CJ's never been so overt, so openly appreciative. She must be slipping. To be honest, she fell years ago.

The hands he has been staring at have found their way to hers. She's not sure they've stood like this before and, despite his weakness, the slight stoop he developed not so long ago, she feels protected. Safe.

"I can't promise..." His voice is soft, his breath somewhat stale on her cheek. After all, he's not been well.

She speaks through sudden tears and a smile, "I'll take whatever you're offering, Toby."

*

There's no strength for grand passion. Surrounded by boxes, he kisses her while she undresses him. Her lips catch at passing skin, his nose burrows into her neck as, naked, she bends to untie his shoes.

"I feel like a big baby."

There's a touch of shame in the faded brown of his eyes, diffidence in the smile that skews his gray streaked beard.

She can't find the words, so, with a gentle hand on his chest, she pushes him back on to the bed and kisses him on the mouth.

He breaks the kiss, needing to breathe. "This has to be about you, CJ, it's more than I…I don't think…"

"You don't have to do anything, Toby. And this is about us _now_ , not us of twenty years ago. Let me do this."

So she covers his chest with kisses, runs her hands over his lips and eyes, and takes a deep, shuddering breath when his hand closes around her breast.

She bites her lip as his fingers gently stroke her, bringing her to a painfully sweet climax. Her whole body throbs with the effort of lying still; of not using her hands to claim him, her hips to ride him. For a brief moment she mourns what might have been, then she kisses his semi-erect penis before nestling against his neck, one leg draped comfortably over his.

"You have a beautiful cock, Toby," she mutters.

And falls asleep.

*

Morning and the smell of coffee. CJ groans as she lifts her head. Age is not kind to stomach sleepers. The bedroom is bright; sunlight streams through the curtain-less window. She'll have to do something about that.

"It's about time you welcomed the day." Toby's voice above her sounds cheerful and she can't help smiling in response.

"What time is it?"

"Eight thirty. I could call it laziness, but I'm feeling charitable, so I won't."

"What's brought on this good mood? CJ turns carefully, unwinding the sheet that's wrapped around her legs. "Not that I'm complaining…" She puts a hand up to her forehead and covers her eyes.

"I could look at you all day." He's sitting on the bed and she can feel the warmth of more than his voice.

She opens an eye and lifts her hand, peers at him to see if he is joking. The soft smile and the solemn gaze tell her that he's not, and she bites off the quick riposte she'd been ready to fire. There is a moment of true understanding and immense respect. It's what she's been searching for all her life.

"I brought coffee."

"So I smell." She reaches for the large cup and places it on the bedside table. "You're an angel."

He laughs and her heart beats faster.

"I've never been called an angel before." He looks absurdly pleased as he shifts carefully beside her, tentatively pushes out a finger to stroke the hand she's let rest on his thigh.

CJ turns her palm up and grasps his fingers in hers. "I doubt you'll hear it again. Not unless you bring me coffee tomorrow…" She can't help the question in her tone and flinches at the note of desperation even she can hear.

Toby squeezes back. "I'll see what I can do." He lifts his chin and looks down at her. "We'll talk about it. After."

"After what?"

He lets go of her hand, stands and points. "After you've drunk that! And after you've showered. After I've been to buy some groceries." A tilt of the head and he gives her a sweet smile. "I'm under doctor's orders, you know. Abbey says there must be no more take-outs or processed food." The smile broadens at the look of horror on her face, "It's fresh fruit and vegetables all the way. I make a killer salad dressing." 

He's laughing openly now, and CJ kneels awkwardly, hauls herself close to him, and rests her cheek against his chest.  She's overwhelmed.

"Give me half an hour and I'll come with you?"

"No," Toby extricates himself from her embrace, "you'll just encourage me to buy the wrong things.  I know you, CJ. I won't be long."

She hears the front door shut as she drains her coffee. Half runs to the bathroom. She's not felt this young in years. It ... he… the thought of _them_. It makes her blood sing.

Showered and dressed in twenty minutes, she decides to walk down the street to meet him. She knows where he'll be; the Italian delicatessen on the corner, two blocks down, trying to convince himself that she wouldn't want him to buy the bottle of Barolo that's high up behind the counter.

She pushes the damp hair from her eyes and lengthens her stride. She can see him across the road now, and she can't help herself; she extends an arm above her head in a grandiose wave. Did she ever feel this good at twenty-five?

She sees him lift a hand to shoulder height in response, watches him check the traffic before he crosses, grocery bag clutched in the other arm.

And then it's over.  As she's on the cusp of grabbing her life with both hands and wringing every last ounce of joy from it; as she sees a future for herself that, for once, isn't alone, that is filled with words and jokes and fights and kisses and ideas and laughter…and love. It's over.

There's no squeal of brakes, no sickening thump. No car. Just a man falling slowly to his knees in the middle of the road. Her man.

The bag slips from his fingers, its contents scatter. She steps into the road blindly, half catches him as he falls, then sees his head tip back into the pool of olive oil oozing from the dark brown bottle. There's no light in the dark brown eyes.

She screams.

*

The day of the funeral arrives faster than she can handle; it's the first Thursday in October. Eyes follow her as she steps out of the car, bulbs flash and, not for the first time in her life, she flinches. There's no point in waiting, no point in looking round. There's no one to walk with her now; no one to hold her arm and tell her that it was time, that life goes on without him.

She is bereft.

The service is short and there are a few empty seats. The President is in Europe and those that care are either with his entourage or dead themselves. CJ nods at Andi. She can't bring herself to look at Huck or Molly.

She'll write.

Somehow she listens without hearing. She can tell that Toby will be genuinely mourned, that people are genuinely sorrowful. She can tell because she can see their faces as they approach his ex-wife, can see the pat on the arm for his son, the arm round the shoulder of his daughter. A few faces turn her way, a few will have wondered over the years, may even have gossiped.

She wants to scream her loss. She wants to blast them all from the face of the earth for not seeing her pain, for not knowing that she loved him. That he loved her. He loved her. She's sure. Sure.

"He loved you, you know." Abbey is there beside her.

"I don't know. He never said." CJ is amazed that the words have left her mouth. She turns to the woman whose loss is no less real, if not as fresh.

"It was in everything he wrote since Jed died." Abbey has tears in her eyes that refuse to fall. "If you look carefully, it's there way before that as well. But, it's more apparent since, to me, anyway. He loved you, CJ. He'd visit me, he was one of the few that did, and he'd talk about you. He couldn't talk about the past, what he thought of as the important days of his life, without mentioning you. You haunted his days."

Abbey puts her hand on CJ's arm.

"You're coming with me. Let's go pack you a bag."

**

The ceiling fan hums quietly and the mosquito nets ripple softly in the breeze. The evening air is so humid that it feels like breathing water.

The tear trails won't dry on her cheeks.

Once again, she seeks comfort in the arms of the older woman.

"How can I go on, Abbey?"  It doesn't matter that her head's on Abbey's shoulder and that she can't see her eyes. She's holding tightly to the one who's been here before and who's still breathing. "How do you go on?"

Abbey strokes a small hand through CJ's hair. "They tell you that it gets better. I'm not saying that they're wrong, but it's been six years and I can feel it as though it were yesterday. All that I can tell you is that time passes and gradually you take joy in the little things." She turns in the gloom until CJ can see the gleam of her eyes. "You can choose to live the rest of your life as a shadow of yourself, or you can choose to be the woman that he loved. I won't judge you either way."

CJ sits up, ignoring the pain in her leg. She stands and walks out of the door and on to the sand. She wriggles her toes and the fine white grains shift beneath her feet.

Her words are soft, but they carry on the night breeze. "You'd hate it here, Toby. We'd have fought over vacations together as we'd have fought over just about everything else." She stops, struck. "At least this way I get to have the last word."

This time she can laugh through her tears.  As does the woman still sobbing in the darkness inside.

End.


End file.
